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PAUL'S LILIES 

"CONSIDER THE LILIES" 
SOME WRITTEN , SOME LOVED, BY THE BOY 




Class eS Z C 07 

Book.. ^a^n^'C 

CoByiightl*!" " 



COFKRIOHT DEPOSIT 



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PAUL 

IVARXER 

ESMOXD. 

What is Lifer 

A rolling pebble 
IV hat is Lifer 

A grain of sand. 
What IS Lifer 

A falling snowfiake 
hi the holloic of Death's hand. 



Life and Death. 

Take them tcgcilie 
Do they form 

A soi/i's brief Ji our 
Can you question 

Life Eternal f 
Can you question 

God's great power' 



.^^^ OF CHlc^ 




PAULS LILIES 

"CONSIDER THE LILIES" 
SOME WRITTEN, SOME LOVED, BY THE BOY 

BROADWAY PUBLISHING COMPANY 
NEW YORK. 



Library of congress 

Two CoDie? Rijceived 

NOV 17 t908 

Oopyriiint r.ntry ^ 
CLASS Oc KXC, No, 

copy a. j 






\. b 



^A A ^ 



Copyright, 1V»08. 

BY 

DARWIN W. ESMOND 



./// A'/V///.? Restn'fd 




PAUL'S PUSSY WILLOWS. 

The first to bud in springtime, and from its golden bloom, 

Paul has carried many a token of his love 

To tJie teaelier at the sehool desk, zi'here they zuithered all too 

soon. 
But lehispered of the deathless flou'ers above. 




:blue 

FLAQ 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Absence of a Loved One 64 

A Child's Thought 60 

An Advertisement 30 

A Flower Seed 34 

A Toast to Spain 56 

Autumn Musings 45 

December 50 

Endure the Task, the Morning Comes TJ 

Entered Into Rest 67 

Filial Love 14 

Foreshadowing — Dedicated to Paul, by Rev. 

Wm. J. Tilley 4 

Gentle Words 63 

Hail and Farewell 'J^ 

Home of the Soul 83 

I Love the Blessed Paths 53 

Imitation of Paul 75 

In Memoriam 91 

In Memory of Paul 87 

Johnnie's Fourth of July 23 

Life 17 

Life's Victory 82 

Lines in Memory of Little Herbert Mustin 85 

Mary 41 

My Heart Breala^ — Girlie's Dead 'j'i 



U Contents. 

PAGE 

My Steed ., 69 

Ode to a Snow-Ball .' 28 

On the River's Bank at Night 38 

Paul Warner Esmond, A Blessed Memory I 

Paul Warner Esmond 7 

Response to an Advertisement 31 

Rest With Thee, O God 81 

Ring Out Your Joy, Glad Bells 19 

The Anemone 40 

The Broken Circle 16 

The Bells of Pontiac 54 

The Chariot Race 20 

The Chase— Lady Bird Wins 68 

The Child Eternal— Jessie Ward 12 

The Girl from Sun-set Town 27 

The Saviour's Call 62 

The Sleeping Twins 70 

The Voices of the Bells 43 

To a Departed Mother 36 

To the Close Communionists 49 

To My Love 51 

To Paul Warner Esmond 3 

To the Reader 13 

Victory 65 

When Professor Minard is Great 47 




1 



V/V.---^ ' 


pau].«s o>vk ims 







lu'llowhui, and with 
kind pcrniissioii of 

Tube r-P rang Art Co., N. Y. 




GERALDINE LAURA AMELIA WARD. 

Grandmother of the boy, who read to him from the Bible 
each day, and very many volumes of prose and verse. At 
8i years of age she survives him, but longs for the day 
when they shall meet again. 

He always gave her the first flower of Spring and the 
last one of Fall, and is waiting for her at the gate of pearl 
with flowers that never fade. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

PAUL WARNER ESMOND. 

This volume contains original poems writ- 
ten by Paul before he had reached his teens, 
and the writings of others, especial favorites 
with him. 

It is also a pictorial history of this child- 
poet's life. 

Many of the photographs were taken by 
him. 

THE FIELD. 

Consider the lilies of the field, how they 
grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. And 
yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all 
his glory was not arrayed like one of these. — 
S. Matthew vi, 28, 29. 

THE TEMPLE OF GOD. 

And upon the top of the pillars was lily- 
work, and so the work of the pillars was 
finished. 

And it was a hand breadth thick, and the 
brim thereof was wrought like the brim of a 
cup, with flowers of lilies. — i Kings vii, 22, 26. 

THE MASTER. 

I am the Rose of Sharon, and the Lily of 
the Valley. As a lily among thorns so is my 
love. — Cant, ii, i. 



DEDICATION 

BY 

REV. WARNER E. L. WARD, 

RECTOR SAINT PAUL'S CHURCH, 

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK. 



PAUL WARNER ESMOND. 

The Rector's heart is sad indeed for the hour 
is come when we must record the falling asleep 
in Jesus of his dearly beloved nephew, Paul 
Warner Esmond, whose sweet, wonderful 
poems have so often brought help to the hearts 
and tears to the eyes of many. 

No lovelier flower has been culled from 
earthly gardens to grace the heavenly courts, 
and the little chaplet of verses he has left be- 
hind will be an enduring memory with those 
who loved him best. 

Born on the seventh of September, 1893, ^^ 
lived a joyous little life, until called by seri- 
ous accidents to be a heroic sufferer in his last 
few years, and even then he was always bright, 
cheerful and philosophical — the light of his 
home. His sufferings seemed the crushing of 
the violet which caused its sweetest perfume 
to exhale. His exceptional poetical genius 
gave great promise of a wide career of useful- 
ness, but his Heavenly Father and the Saviour 
whom he loved so earnestly had use for him 
in other to us unknown fields, to which They 
called him on Wednesday, February twenty- 
seventh, leaving a family bowed in deepest 
grief. 

The same hand that baptized him, anointed 



2 Poetrp of 

him, and gave him his last earthly blessing, 
committed his dear body to the dust, and it 
was the hand of one who loved him. 
May he rest in peace. 

"He has solved it, Life's wonderful problem. 
The deepest, the strangest, the last. 

And into the school of the angels 

With the answer in silence has passed. 

It is idle to talk of the future — 

The "bright might have been" through our 
tears, 
God knows all about it, and took him 

Away from the incoming years. 

God knew all about those who loved him, 

How bitter the trial must be, 
And right through it all God is loving. 

And knows so much better than we," 



c:|)tiDi)ODD 



TO PAUL WARNER ESMOND. 

"I cannot believe that earth is man's abiding 
place. It cannot be that our life is cast up by 
the ocean of Eternity, to float for a moment on 
its surface, and then vanish forever. We are 
born for a higher destiny than that of earth. 
There is a realm where the rainbow never 
fades, — where the stars never set, and where 
the beings that now pass before us like 
shadows will stay in our presence forever." 

These words of Prentice come irresistibly 
to my thought as I recall the gentle soul that 
has passed beyond Time's boundary into the 
Silent Land. For his modesty and ingenu- 
ousness, — his courage and childlike simplicity, 
— the wisdom beyond his years. In a word, 
for that rare, mysterious gift of Genius, and 
for all that he was as I knew him, I am most 
grateful to have been privileged to count him 
my friend, and to him I lovingly dedicate this 
poem. 



Poetrp of 



FORESHADOWINGS. 

"Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard." 

Does he not oft, who in the twilight sits and 

listens, 
After the noisy tumult of the boisterous day, 
Catch, in the hush and quiet, wondrous strains 

of music 
Wafted in sweetest cadence on the breezes' play ; 
Now swelling, now receding. 
Then dying in air away? 

And hast thou never, 'mid life's battle and con- 
fusion, 
When, 'mid the vexing turmoil of the clamor- 
ous time, 
There came a pause — heard in the blessed still- 
ness 
The distant music of the everlasting chime; 
Now swelling, now receding. 
In symphony sublime? 

And hast thou not, when on thy raptured 

vision 
Has beamed a face in which all heavenly 

graces shine. 



CJ)ilDJ)OOD 5 

Thought there was half revealed, e'en in that 

face's beauty, 
Suggestion of a radiance even more divine; 

Dim, shadow^y, yet prophetic, 

Mysterious, undefined? 

O, earth is full of symbols and prophetic 

voices. 
Of sense more deep than finite blindness e'er 

shall see; 
We catch here but a glimpse, a strain, a vague 

suggestion. 
The faintest image of the glory yet to be, 
When time, in tone majestic, 
Proclaims Eternity. 

To Faith's keen eye alone the veil is partly 

lifted, 
And beams of heavenly radiance pierce the 

murkiest cloud, 
The ear of Love full oft discerns celestial 

music. 
Which to the grosser ear of Sense is ne'er 

allow^ed ; 

Though, to the soul in waiting, 
'Tis strangely clear, and loud. 

The rarest pearls are found deep hid in stillest 

caverns, 
Far from the noisy babblings of the pebbly 

shore. 
So truth comes to the soul in hours of sacred 

silence, 



6 Poetrp of 

Far from the prating rabble's senseless rush 
and roar; 

Truth dwells with God, in quiet, 
For him whose heart is pure. 

— William James Tilley, B. D, 



€biinboot^ 



PAUL WARNER ESMOND. 

Let me wash my hands and say a prayer, 
for the things of which I write are Holy 
things. 

The earnest boy whose dear life inspired this 
little book, and whose genius has filled its 
pages, was born at Newburgh, New York, in 
his home overlooking the Hudson, September 
7th, 1893. His father was of old New Eng- 
land parentage and his mother grew up in one 
of the garden spots of our country — Northern 
Illinois. 

Nature smiled on Paul ; he was as straight 
as an arrow, beautiful as a flower, quick and 
able at anything that came to his hand to do. 
His home was suited to a boy's life, with large 
play grounds, adjoining a spacious park, and 
covered with a wealth of floral beauty, for 
which he early showed his love. Here he 
passed his thirteen years of active joyous life. 
His trend was toward merriment, and though 
quick to learn, he was all a boy, alert for sport 
and watchful for the fun in things. He had a 
boy's idolatry for the horse, it was his special 
favorite. With loads of girls and boys he 
was often seen flying over the hills and 



8 Poetrp of 

through the valleys of his picturesque sur- 
roundings. 

Now and then in the last months of his life, 
when illness shut him indoors, chess and bil- 
liards, with both of which he became most 
expert, called in his friends to many a glad 
hour. After Paul's first year of learning, under 
private tutorage, he was a constant attendant 
at the public school, ready at his books, and 
most gentle and loving toward his teachers 
and all whom he met. He succeeded at what- 
ever came to his hand. Pyrography, drawing, 
and painting came naturally. 

His grandmother, past eighty when he left 
her, was his constant companion indoors ; 
when up, the first of the household in the 
morning; taking his daily rest, or busy with 
pencil or brush, she was wont to read to him 
hour after hour, from the best authors of all 
the ages. The Koran, Scott's works, Stanley's, 
Bunyan's, Moore's, Victor Hugo's he very 
much loved. 

From his earliest days he loved poetry, and 
his desk and books are full of clippings and 
quotations, much of his treasured stock ap- 
pears in this volume. He wrote rapidly and 
seldom corrected his verse ; at times he would 
seize a pad and write as fast as his hand could 
move. He told us he had been thinking and 
dreaming the poems out for days before. He 
was writing a story when he ceased to labor 
on earth. His command of language was ap- 
parently unlimited. He could declaim for 
hours most charmingly. 



His death seemed to come from a series of 
misfortunes, and possibly from a lack of 
watchfulness by those who loved him best. 

Paul was recognized by all who met him as 
perfect in deportment, charming in conversa- 
tion, and several hundred letters expressive of 
the esteem in which he was held, and the loss 
his death had caused, came from every quarter 
of the land and from across the seas. Paul was 
a cheerful companion, with wit and humor 
always at command ; one who respected God, 
loved every thing in nature, was ever obedient, 
solicitous for the welfare of his loved ones, a 
child with a man's soul and an angel's heart. 
To take such a boy out of the Home and Life 
has broken the chain of hope, shipwrecked 
peace, darkened the sun, made life a burden and 
song a wail. 

It seems as if it will do any child good to 
see his pictures, many of them by his own 
hand, and read his sweet verses, and it must 
inspire both the young and the aged to receive 
the blessed testimonies he has consecrated to 
hope. 

Too young so soon to die, and yet, 

If greater fields of work await him in the 
better life. 
His feet and hands are just as busy still, 
Doing his Master's will, without complaint 
or strife. 



lo Poettp of 



I think of Dear Paul, as a star, ever more 
bright and clear, and sing these words, in 
memory of him. 

We shall reach the summer land, some sweet 

day, by and by ; 
We shall press the golden strand, some sweet 

day, by and by ; 
O the loved ones watching there, by the tree 

of life so fair, 
Till we come their life to share, some sweet 
day, by and by. 

By and by, some sweet day, 
We shall meet our loved ones gone, 
some sweet day, by and by. 

At the crystal river's brink, some sweet day, 

by and by, 
We shall find each broken link, some sweet 

day, by and by. 
Then the star, that fading here, left our hearts 

and homes so drear. 
We shall see more bright and clear, some sweet 
day, by and by. 

By and by, some sweet day, 
We shall meet our loved ones gone, 
some sweet day, by and by. 



CI)ilD|)OOD II 

O these parting scenes will end, some sweet : 

day, by and by, :! 

We shall gather friend with friend, some sweet : 

day, by and by ; ;l 

There before our Father's throne, when the \ 

winds and clouds have flown, ] 

We shall know, as we are known, some sweet ' 

day, by and by, 

By and by, yes, by and by, some sweet 

day, ,i 

We shall meet our loved ones gone, I 

some sweet day, by and by. | 
— Mary E. Round, 



12 Poetrp of 



THE CHILD ETERNAL. 

I heard their prayers and kissed their sleepy- 
eyes, 
And tucked them in all warm from feet to 
head, 
To wake again with morning's glad sunrise, — 

Then came where he lay dead. 
On cold still mouth I laid my lips. Asleep 

He lay, to wake the other side God's door, 
My other children mine to love and keep, 
But this one mine no more. 

Those other children long to men have 
grown, — 
Strange hurried men who give me passing 
thought. 
Then go their ways. No longer now my own. 

Without me they have wrought. 
So when night comes, and seeking mother's 
knee, 
Tired childish feet turn home at eventide, 
I fold him close — the child that's left to me. 
My little lad who died. 

— Irene Fowler Brown. 

With loving memory of Paul from Aunty, 
Jessie Ward. 



r 



■f 



I'V 













CASTKR tlLY 




AGE 6 YEARS. 

As the desert, lone and dreary, 
As the rough and stormy sea, 
As the midnight, dark and gloomy 
Js thy absence unto me. 



CftilDftooD 13 



TO THE READER. 

As the dew-drop to the flower, 
As the sunlight to the day, 
As the moonbeams in their power, 
Is thy presence unto me. 

As the desert lone and dreary, 
As the rough and stormy sea, 
As the Midnight dark and gloomy. 
Is thy absence unto me. 



14 Poettp of 



FILIAL LOVE. 

AN ALL souls' DAY REVERIE. 

Who saith that when the aged die 

And find a couch in mouldering clay 
That lightly parts the loosened tie 

And scarcely mourn'd they pass away? 

Speak ! ye who o'er their calm decline » 

Have bent so tenderly and long, | 

Did filial love its charge resign 

And careless seek the unsaddened throng? 

When to your brow their dying eye 

With speechless recollection clung, 
Burst from your breast no bitter sigh? 

No pang convulsive chained your tongue! 

Speak ! ye who by a father's side 

So fondly sat while years swept by, 
Making his hoary locks your pride 

And learning how the righteous die. 

Who deftly culled from storied page 

Sweets o'er the deafened ear to strew, 
And quickened oft your homeward step 

Because that dim eye watched for you 



CfillOftOOD 15 

Say, — was the shaft of anguish slight 
Or soon dispelled the painful gloom 

When sank your counsellor and guide 
A tenant to the voiceless tomb? 

Hence with the thought! It is not so! 

Methinks e'en deeper woe should wait 
Their loss whose rooted virtues show 

The ripeness of a longer date. 

When wisdom's crown, so meekly worn, 
Is shrouded 'mid their frosted hair, 

And from a younger race's withdrawn 
The example they but ill could spare. 

With smitten heart and lingering sigh 
We miss them from our side away. 

Then deem not, when the aged die. 
The tear is cold that dews the clay. 



i6 Poettp of 



THE BROKEN CIRCLE. 

Vvt mourn for the loved and cherished, 
Called hence in their early bloom, 

Like fair young flowers that perished 
In the glow of their rich perfume. 

We weep for the circle broken 

Of affection's severed ties, 
And embalm every garnered token 

Of the lost ones in hallowed sighs. 

But we mourn not in hopeless sorrow, 
Our darkness is not all gloom, 

For from Faith can our torn hearts borrow 
A light that illumes the tomb. 

And a message of peace doth greeet us 
From the loved ones borne to their rest. 

Though they come not to earth to meet us, 
We shall go to them in their bliss. 




PAUL'S BROTHER WILLIAA[. 

Who preceded him to the Holy City. 

'And the streets of the eity shall be full of boys and girls, play- 
ing in the streets thereof." 



^^- 




^'^^^■^^MJUS SWEET PRAYERS. 

^" l^^iii^God, help me. Oh ! God, help us all." 

"Oh ! Lord my Maker, my Redeemer, niv 
Pfeserver, help me — and help us all." 

:^ / When his father was away, he always asked 
' • j^l / this blessing: 

V "Oh! Lord, we thank Thee for the Gifts 

^.^hou hast bestowed upon us, and pray that 

\^f Thou wouldst keep and guide us in Thy holy 



? V 



wa^^s. 



OR 



*'Oh ! Lord, bless the food Thou hast pro- 
vided for us, for Christ's sake, Amen." 
The Lord's prayer. 

The child's prayer. 

''Oh ! Lord, bless Papa and Mama and 
Grandma and Uncle Warner and Auntie Jes- 
sie and Cousin Hattie and Paul and every 
one, for Christ's sake. Amen." 

"Good night ! Night ze night." 

"I hope you won't have any d^pg^fl^i^it 
you have them, have them happy.' 




Daisies from Hattie 
For Grace and Paul. 



CftilDftooD 17 



LIFE. 

"Life is the childhood of immortality." — 
Goethe, 

What is Life? 

A fleeting pleasure, 
What is Life? 

A passing wave, 
What is Life ? 

A soul's endeavor, 
Life is but temptation's slave. 

What is Life ? 

A mighty battle, 
What is Life ? 

A tossing sea. 
What is Life ? 

A strife with evil 
That we may victorious be. 

What is Life? 

A tideless ripple, 
What is Life? 

A joyous day. 
What is Life? 

A strife forever 
For earth's mammon and earth's sway. 



i8 Poettp of 

What is Life ? 

A quivering aspen, 
What is Life? 

An empty dream, 
What is Life? 

A passing eddy 
In the ever-flowing stream. 

What is Life? 

A rolling pebble, 
What is Life? 

A grain of sand, 
What is Life? 

A falling snow-flake 
In the hollow of Death's hand. 

Life and Death, 

Take them together, 
Do they form 

A soul's brief hour? 
Can you question 

Life Eternal? 
Can you question God's great power? 



I 



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H^avTi LiflHH 


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THE IIKST CHKISTMA8. 

The shepherds with tlieir flock by night 
AVatelied o'er the dusky plain, 

When lo! there was a heavenly light 
That shone o'er Bethlehem; 

And as they upward gazed 
On high an angel came. 

He pointed toward the wondrous star, 

And cried: "To Bethlehem!" 
When lo! a heavenly host appeared 

That chanted from the sky. 
And as the shepherds gazed, they heard 

Glad tidings from on high. 

"Peace to earth, good will toward men," 
The angels sang and sang again. 

And when the heavenly host was gone 
The shepherds rose, and in a throng, 

They journeyed on toward Bethlehem. 



The Wise Men coming from the East, 

Brought with them gold and myrrh; 
These with frankincense, were the gifts, 

They placed at Jesus' feet. 
Most humbly the Wise Men knelt; 

The shepherds at their side, 
And as they knelt 

Their spirits thiilled with praise divine. 



Cf)ilDf)OOD 19 



RING OUT YOUR JOY— GLAD BELLS. 

Ring ye bells of Christmas morning, 

Peal your notes aloud, 
Let them wake the mighty echoes 

In our heart's deep shroud. 

Oh ! we love to hear them ringing 

O'er the quiet plain. 
For we seem to hear the angels 

Sing that cherished song again. 

"Peace on Earth," the angels chanted, 

''Peace on earth, good will toward men," 

And the story time-enchanted 
Echoes in those bells again. 

Let them say the bells of marriage 

Have a gladder, brighter sound, 
But the bells on Christmas morning 

Are with heavenly glory crowned. 

Let them say the bells when tolling 

Have a deeper mystic swell ; 
God Himself, on Christmas morning, 

Speaks throughout the Christmas bell. 



20 Poettp of 



THE CHARIOT RACE. 

Standing, stamping, pawing, snorting, 
There the white, and there the cream, 

There the black, and there the sorrel, 
There the steeds of silver mane. 

Waiting, ready for the order, 
Waiting for their driver's word. 

Waiting for the starting signal. 
For the sound they oft had heard. 

Then it came, the starting signal, 
Came the sound the drivers loved: 

"Forward! Onward! Keep together! 
"Station the Centurion Guard !" 

From the cries that smote to windward 
Echoes through the Circus came, 

Cries of "Onward, Arab beauties ! 
"Onward, ye of silver mane !" 

Cries of "Onward ! Forward ! black ones/* 
"Keep together. Oh, ye creams!" 

"Onward ! On, my precious sorrels, 
"Near the quarter we are seen." 

Then the driver of the Arabs 

Chirrupped with his softest note, 



Cheered them into proper action, 
Fired them to the utmost volt. 



Ah ! that shrill and piercing whinny 
From the leader quickly came. 

Ah ! the bound like lightning followed. 
Ah ! the chariot's dizzy swing. 

But the driver did not falter, 

Steadily he held the rein, 
Soul enlisted in the struggle. 

Well he knew their sturdy vein. 

Then the chariot swinging forward 
Quickly passed the sorrel team, 

Passed the black ones, Ah ! those beauties 
Of the Tyrol's sylvan sheen. 

Neck to neck they came together, 
Came the Arabs and the creams, 

While ahead of both were racing, 
Ah, those steeds of silver manes. 

For an instant kept together 

Were the steeds of white and cream, 

Then the driver of the Arabs 

Cheered his steeds once and again, 

And like arrows darting forward. 
Forward from the strongest bow, 

-Flew the Arabs past the silvers. 
Onward to the quarter goal. 



22 Poettp of 

At the second and third quarter 

Were the Arabs pressing on, 
And a black one having stumbled 

Those 'Mark four" were far undone. 

Now the sorrels quickly gaining 
On the slower rushing creams, 

And the steeds of Tyrol breeding 
By the white one nearly seems. 

Then the driver of the Arabs 

Once more cheered his maddened four, 
And they, swinging swiftly forward, 

Reached the goal, and won the score. 

Thus the chariot race was ended. 
And the whites the laurels claim, 

Claim the princely crown of olive. 
Claim the glory and the fame. 



B^^^^^H 








J .^.^^ ^ 



THE BAHV CHARIOT. 
'Some dav 1 will think in verse." 




I'M Of-I-! 



CftilDftooD 23 



JOHNNIE'S FOURTH OF JULY. 

There was a little fellow 

Whose name was Johnnie Gray, 

And he had long been thinking 
Of Independence Day. 

Now Johnnie was a plotter 

Of schemes of divers hue; 
Last Fourth it was a quarter. 

Then Christmas brought him two. 

And this Fourth he was scheming 
For a dollar bright and round, 

But strange to say his father's plans 
Toward half a dollar wound. 

But on the twenty-ninth of June 
This youngster bright and gay, 

Unto his father's office went 
In hopes of shining pay ; 

And when Johnnie reached the office, — 
Reached the office of his dad, 

Then it was he came to business. 
Came to business sour and sad. 

But dear Johnnie's prudent father 
Thought that half a dollar 'd do; 



24 Poettp of 

Thought that he, so small a youngster, 
Need not so much money strew. 

But this scheming little Johnnie, 

Saying nothing to his father, 
Turned him 'round, and walking westward, 

Reached his home in half an hour; 

Then he went direct to grandma. 

And with flattering words and kisses, 

Won her tender, loving conscience. 
Half a dollar, and good wishes. 

Then it was that little Johnnie 

Headed him where firecrackers, 
And where cannons were abounding 

In the stores of sundry trackers. 

And he bought him firecrackers. 

Bought him three and twenty bunches, 

Bought him packs of Chinese crackers 

Stamped and named "Mandarin Launches." 

Yes, he bought him firecrackers, 

Firecrackers of all sizes, 
Tiny, winy firecrackers 

And the wondrous cannon prizes. 

Now as he was walking homeward. 

Walking homeward with his mammon. 

He beheld a little playmate 
With a firecracker cannon, 



And he said unto his playmate: 

*'Say, will you sell me that cannon." 

"I will sell it for a nickel," 

Said this playmate of a gammin. 

"Here's a nickel," said our Johnnie. 

''Here's the cannon, said his trusted; 
And our hero, walking homeward, 

Was most happy, though dead busted. 

When he reached his home, and rested, 
Then he took him pen and paper, 

And he scribbled to his uncle. 

Begged for rockets as much safer. 

But our patriot could not wait, 

And from thence on he boomed and banged 
All day, and late at night, 

Until the neighbors wished him hanged. 

At last the glorious Fourth 

Was ushered in once more. 
And Johnnie boomed and banged away 

Until the people swore. 

A cannon cracker he now takes 

To celebrate the day, 
A wondrous giant of its race 

To take one's breath away. 

In his howitzer he doth place 

This jumbo giant of the race. 
Then touched the fuse with lighted match. 

And 'round the cannon pranced and danced. 



26 Poettp of 

As just before the mouth he skips 
The giant cracker "busts" and rips, 

And high doth fly the nickel gun 
To land upon his cranium. 

His father picks his soldier up 

And brings him in. Beside his pup 

Upon the bed he lays him down 
To bandage up his aching crown. 

Though through the day the crackers burst. 

And cannon hail the noon, 
Our helpless Johnnie lies in bed 

The worse for that first boom. 

And now he bids you a good-bye, 

Assured his pain and smart 
Will memorize that awful day 

Upon his boyish heart. 




DRIVFXG THE TURTLE. 




"Will you give me all your love?" 



H'ORDS OFT REPEATED 
/X THE AR.}LS OF THE LOrED ONES. 



"Vse 'oo Duckie, 

'Oos my Dove. 
Will you give iiic 

All your lore/ 
Then we'll bof 

As happy be, 
As two birdies 

In a tree." 




CftilDftODD 27 



THE GIRL FROM SUN-SET TOWN. 

There was a little girly, 

Her hair was never curly, 
Straight as the Indian's coal black tress 

It shaded on her checkered dress. 

Her soul was never surly. 

Her face was full of sunlight, 
Her eyes aflame with delight, 

Pure as an angel's soul of fire, 

Her heart toward holy things aspired, 
Her feet climbed many a height. 

To see her was to love her 

As sure as Heaven's above her, 

Her merry laugh could cure the ill, 
Her scorn an arrow sure to kill, 
No wonder that I love her. 

Her name? — let's see, Oh bless me, 
Let all else sore oppress me. 

If ever but in joyous days 

I bid the muse speak it in praise 
Her own sweet name was JESSIE. 



28 Poettp of 



ODE TO SNOWBALL. 

The sun is set, the shadows fall, 
The brightness all has fled, 

Above our pastimes hangs a pall, 
Snowball, alas, is dead. 

No longer can Ave smile to see 

Thy eyes of ruby hue. 
No longer give sweet grass to thee 

Steeped in the morning dew; 

No longer can we stroke thy fur, 
That fur so soft and bright, 

For it like thee hath passed away 
Into the endless night; 

No longer can we gaze with love 

Upon thy figure white. 
Its semblance we can see above 

In planespheres of light. 

For thou art laid beneath the sod, 
And flowers above thee grow, 

The hollyhock and golden rod, 
The lily, pure as snow. 




Thev hear mv voice and know niv care. 



CftilDftooD 29 

But sweeter far would be the balm, 
If one thy tender heart could tell 

Whose was the sorrow, soft and calm. 

And from whose eyes the tear-drops fell ; 

As o'er thy grave her lovely form . 

Bent love's token there to place. 
Rapture would stir thee that one could mourn 

So full of beauty and of grace. 



A bust of Shakespeare having been sent 
from Brooklyn to Newburgh by Father Ward, 
and about the same time a clergyman's outfit 
from Newburgh to the Reverend Father. Both 
having been lost, and not recovered, prompted 
the following lines which were sent on a postal 
to the clergyman: 

Poor William Shakespeare, half undressed, 
In cold and storm without a vest. 

Met Father Ward's new clergy suit 
And put 'em on to shoot the chute. 



30 poettp of 



AN ADVERTISEMENT. 

WANTED : — A wife ; by a very nice man, 
A lady who wishes to learn all she can, 
Who is lovely, and pleasant, and talented 

too, 
And would honor her lord as a lady should 

do; 

Has a taste for good breeding, for music, and 

love. 
And joins to good temper the grace of a 

dove, 
With a virtuous contempt for the base and 

the vile, 
And a wish to see Italy, Greece, and the Nile. 

She must speak the King's English, and turn 

out her toes. 
And in dancing contrive not to land on her 

nose ; 
Pure minded and moral, — quite free from all 

sin ; 
And to wind up the list have a good share 

of tin. 

A lady so perfect, — if such one there be,— 



Will find a good husband on searching for 
me, 

If she cares for a gentleman, painter and 
poet, 

A choice sort of man, though he don't al- 
ways show it, 

Who has made a grand tour, and has manners 
to match, 

She will find that the writer's a capital catch. 

If content with an honest and friendly ad- 
viser. 

She is sure of her man in the said Advertiser. 

RESPONSE— I. 

If P. W. E., who seeks for a wife. 
Is sober and honest, not given to strife. 
Has a gentleman's bearing, and is not too old, 
And with a true heart has a small share of 
gold,— 

If his manners match his wit, which truly is 

great, 
And he has not a lame limb, or a very bald 

pate, 
A wife he may find who is lively and gay. 
And would be to him as the sun to the day. 

The Tiber, the Nile, and the broad Zuyder Zee, 
With the Try and the Shannon, she'd much 

love to see. 
She is likewise pure-minded and free from all 

sin 



32 Poetrp of 

As he is who seeks for "a good share of tin;" 

And has for some time, though her friends 

didn't know it, 
Wished to become the wife of a poet. 
If you think that she'll do, Mr. P. W. E., 
Pop a line in the Post Office addressed to me. 

RESPONSE— 2. 

"A very nice man" is a prize worth securing, 
And the offer you make is found very alluring, 

So modest, so tender, so gentle, so kind ! 
Your wit is so brilliant! your love is so blind! 

Your artist-like powers are easily seen ; 
But of all the bright colors you patronize 
green. 

Since you seek not perfection, though justly 

your due, 
And of many bright attributes ask but a few, 

My vanity whispers I may draw the prize, 
And hope bears me up, almost to the skies ! 

The description you give seems intended for 

me, 
Or differs at least in a trifling degree: 

My "temper" is lively and pleasant at times, 
In music I'm rich; there my glory still shines. 




HONORARY MEMBER. 



CfjilDftOOtI 33 

111 love I am skilled, and my lap-dog's caress 
Is a puppy's endearment which you may pos- 
sess. 

All ground that is classic in rapture I scan, 
And I wish to see Italy as soon as I can. 

In "dancing" and ''morals" I trip it along, 
And am free from all sin, if a waltz is not 
wrong. 

Your offer I take, and will say in a trice 

For a husband like you I will give a fair price. 



34 Poctrp of 



A FLOWER SEED. 

Little winged flower seed 

Floating in the air. 
Thou dost know a kindly love, 

And a watchful care. 

Tho' thou steerest helplessly 
Which way blows the wind, 

There is soil in store for thee; 
Shelter thou shalt find. 

Thou wilt hide in it till Spring 
Comes with softest tread, 

Whispers thee to strike thy roots. 
And to lift thy head. 

Tho' thou art a tiny thing 

In a world so wide; 
Without pilot, helm or chart 

Thy wanderings to guide. 

Faith will hold thee in her hand, 
Hide thee safe and warm, 

Free from Winter's icy chain, 
And his chilling storm. 



CftilDftooD 35 

Not the highest power of art 

One like thee could form. 
Millions from great Nature's heart 

Hourly are born. 

I would trusting be like thee, 

Sure of coming Spring, 
For the Love which shelters thee 

Folds me 'neath its wing. 



z^ Poetrp of 



TO A DEPARTED MOTHER. 

Amid the sculptured sylvan scene 

Where silence reigned profound and dread, 

I stood, and 'neath the willow green 
Held sweet communion with the dead. 

I seemed within a spirit land, 

Ethereal forms before me flew — 

A bright, celestial, happy band 
Anon arose before my view. 

But there was one whose silvery tones 
Still vibrate on my listening ear. 

Those gentle accents memory owns 

Of one, though lost, — still loved most dear. 

It was a mother's gentle voice 

Communing with a daughter's heart, 

Bidding the sad one to rejoice. 

And every sorrowing thought depart, 

**My daughter, weep not o'er the tomb 
"Of one whose spirit dwells not there, 

**Behold above the skies her home, 
''Beyond the reach of pain and care. 



Cf)iIDi)ODtl 37 

"Forebear thy tears; cease to complain 
"Though trials haunt thy earthly lot, 

''Look far from Earth, the source of pain, 
"To heaven, where trials are forgot. 

"Thy duty do with utmost speed. 

"I wait for thy arrival home. 
"For soon the Saviour's voice shall bid 

"The weary, earth-worn wanderer come. 

"And then, with His divine permit, 
"A mother's hand shall guide thy way, 

"And introduce thy weary soul 
"To realms of never ending day. 

"No parting scenes invade that land, 
"Nor sorrows cloud that happy sky, 

"For God our Saviour's gentle hand 
"Shall wipe the tears from every eye. 

"And there eternity we'll spend 

"In union sweeter than below, 
"Where holy pleasures know no end 

"And streams of bliss forever flow." 



38 Poetrp of 



ON THE RIVER'S BANK AT NIGHT. 

Oh ! it is so sweet to wander 

On the river's bank at night, 
And to see the silver moonhght 

Sparkle on the waters bright. 

As I wander down its braes 

Gazing at the waters clear, 
Silence like a blessed comfort 

Draws my heart to God more near. 

When I gazed far down the river, 

There I saw a distant sail 
Drawing nearer, nearer, nearer 

To the quiet of the vale. 

Then she passed me by in splendor, 
And from off her deck there came 

Sounds of music. 

I remember only the refrain. 

As I heard those sounds of music, 

Then I heard the ''deck hands" sing: 

*'Glory be to the Almighty! 
"Glory to our God and King!" 



s 







Cf)ilDl)OOD 39 

And she onward went in beauty, 

Onward up that quiet stream, 
Followed by a golden glory 

In the moonlight's silver gleam. 



40 Poetrp of 



THE ANEMONE. 

I know the gentlest flower that blows 
When Winter's chilling winds have fled; 

And loth its beauty to disclose 
It often hides its modest head. 

The careless eye may not perceive 
The lowly flower so sweet and fair 

For me howe'er in wood or field 

None sweeter scents the morning air. 

I meet it on my favorite walk 

And stop to view its simple charms, 

As bending on its slender stalk 

It trusts to Nature's fostering arms. 

This gentle flower, whose modest grace 
So oft has been a boon to me. 

Though mixed among more showy blooms, 
Thou art my love, Anemone ! 









pRr^-' "^ 







IT SEEMS AS THOUGH THEY SPEAK TO ME. 

Uliciicc did they come and will they bloom 
In Ctd's fair home above f 
These eier-spruigiuy ylcry buds 
That tell me of his loi'e. 




Born- ril winds 

] hea/ . . strain, 

Anu ai,;/||]a'- light breeze rose and fell, 
So wit^-itlternate sink and ^well 
It floated o'er tlie plain. 
And clearly miglit you hear 
The burden of the lay. 

As with sweet voices ringing free 

There sang a band of minstrelsy: 
■ConV for^hJI-xome forth! sweet May. 
•The VK g0 ^Gn the wing; 
'Themm$'-ui)on the ^pray; 

.(^5^e.\vild flower bending o'er the rill; 

•^The trees whose leaves are folded still; 
"Wait for thy step, sweet May." 
And, at their bidding, came 
A maiden, young and fair; 

Her cheeks are brushing like the rose. 

And 'round her slender figure flows 
Her soft and golden Jiair. 
And, as her fairy step 
Touched lightly on th^ ground, 

The primrose bloomed, the cowslip sprung, 

And violets their odors flung 
Upon the air around. 
Then burst from every grove 
A chorus sweet to hear. 

Prom birds on every waving bough 

Singing their sweetest carols now 
That Spring and May are here. 
And then from out the town 
Came forth a joyful crowd 

Of boys and girls, who seek for flowers 

To welcome in the Spring's bright hours 
With songs and laughter loud. 
And still the minstrelsy 
Sang on in chorus gay:- — 

"Come forth, young May, with flowers 
bound, l 

"Of all the months that circle round. 
"We crown thee Queen. O May!" 




C{)llDf)OOD 41 



"MARY/* 

Mary ! It is a gentle name, 
And they alone should bear it 

Whose gentle thoughts and kindly deeds 
Proclaim them meet to wear it. 

Mary, the first of whom we read. 

Is in the Sacred Word, 
The Blessed Virgin undefiled, 

The Mother of our Lord. 

'Twas Mary to the Saviour knelt 
And washed his feet with tears, 

A true repentance then she felt 
For sins of other years. 

When, pity touched, the Saviour said 

"Thy sins be all forgiven !" 
And she who knelt a sinner, rose 

Mary, a child of Heaven. 

Martha, we learn, remained at home 
'Troubled with many things," 

While Mary ran in haste to meet 
Her Lord, the King of Kings. 

And He who truly reads each heart, 
Jesus, of her did say: 



42 Poetrp of 

**Mary hath chosen that good part 
Which shall not pass away." 

And when the Lord of Heaven became 

The lowly crucified 
Three Marys stood around the cross 

And wept as Jesus died. 

'Twas Mary sought at early dawn 
The tomb from which He brake. 

And hers the first recorded name 
The Risen Saviour spake. 

Then Mary! Let it be your aim 

To keep these all in view. 
And, as you bear their gentle name, 

Possess their graces, too. 

Be meek and lowly, pure in heart, 

By thee be sin abhorred. 
Like Mary, choose the ''better part" 

And early seek the Lord. 



o a -^ ^ 

S f3-^ Co' 

a 






5^:::^. 
§> 








Among the Leave.^ 



CbiiaftooD 43 



THE VOICES OF THE BELLS. 

I stood on the side of a leafy hill 

One summer Sabbath morn, 
When the fragrant air was so hushed and still, 
It scarcely rustled the standing corn; 
And the sun shone so bright, 

And the trees looked so green, 
And such a heavenly light 

Streamed the branches between 
That an air of delight 

Seemed to dimple the scene. 

An air of delight, as though the earth 
And the trees and the standing corn 

Rejoiced together to welcome the birth 
Of that summer Sabbath morn. 

The fragrant air was hushed and still 

Save the gurgling plash of the shallow rill, 
The Song of the joyous bird. 

And the drowsy hum of the glittering flies. 

Like drops of sunshine from the skies, — 
No other sound was heard. 

All was so tranquil, above, around, 
Such a sense of repose seemed to hang o'er the 
ground. 
So lazily the cattle lay; 



44 Poetrp of 

It seemed as if nature herself obeyed 

The word of the mighty voice which said : 
*'Thoii shalt keep holy the Sabbath day." 

Why is it that still 'mid the fairest scenes 

The heart is touched with sadness? 
Why is it that grief o'er the spirit steals 

When all around is gladness? 
And why as I stood on that leafy hill 
Did a nameless fear my bosom chill 

That whispered to me: 'Though the earth 
be fair, 
And the sun shine bright, and the balmy air 

Be vocal with sweetest melody. 
And the flowers be beautiful to see ; 

Yet a day will come when the wintry wind, 
And the biting frost will not leave behind 

A vestige of the bright array." 



-• X 



^ < 





Hilliards was Paul's 

fai'oritc pastime; in 
the I II he excelled. 




Where Paul Wrote and Dreamed. 



CftilDftOOB 45 



AUTUMN MUSINGS. 

'Tis Autumn now. Half pleased, half sad I list 
To the wind's low and melancholy sigh ; 
That sad low sigh that Autumn winds will 

breathe 
Whene'er the leaves are falling and the trees 
Tossing their leafless branches high in air: 
When the year's death is nigh and, blossoming 

fair, 
Those bright sweet flowers have faded, 

drooped and died, 
Save some lone floweret that perchance doth 

bloom, 
Seeming so sad amid the loneliness 
That we might almost grieve for it, as one 
Whose kindred all are gone — who stands alone 
Mourning above the wrecks of loveliness 
And waiting death, that calmer of all griefs. 
The sun is high in heaven, but still its beams 
Fall not as they were wont. There is no 

bloom. 
No lovely thing for it to shine upon. 
And day by day it seems to rise more slowly. 
And to leave the world in haste. Winter will 

come 
And cast his icy mantle o'er the scene; 
But yet we know Spring will return again. 



46 Poettp of 

Then flowers will bloom, and birds will wake 
the song, 

And all bright things return. Yet no ! not all ! 

There are some lovelier than the fairest flow- 
ers. 

Some who have left us with the dying year 

That will not come with the Spring's waken- 
ing. 

For they were of a world where Death has 
power 

O'er all bright things; and he has breathed 
around, 

And bright sweet smiles and voices that had 
been 

Like music 'round our way, all, all, are gone 

Down to the silent tomb. We may not call 
them back. 

There is no power e'en in the deepest love 

To stay one hour that dark, dread summons 
to the grave. 






AGE II YEARS. 
For all we know, free from any disease or threatening death. 



bt^H 



S o 



^ s,,^.^^ :^ S ^^ S r 

r5 '^'^-.-^ ?J-" 2^.^ ^ 










C!)ilDJ)ooD 47 



WHEN PROFESSOR MINARD IS GREAT. 

Oh ! the great Professor Minard, 

What a noble man was he 
When he drew forth the rawhide 

And issued a decree : 
''Let none come without their home-work 

''Lest they wish to rue the day, 
"For I promise they shall do it 

"In a sad and sorry way." 

Oh ! the great Professor Minard, 

What a noble man was he 
When on the morning after 

He stood glaring at poor me. 
"Where's your home-work?" then he ques- 
tioned, 

And in sorry tones I said : — 
"O sir ! I forgot it ! I mean, — 

"It's home in bed !" 

Oh ! the great Professor Minard, 

What a noble man was he 
When he grabbed me by the collar 

And flopped me on his knee ; 
Then he took from off the school desk 

The ferrule and the rod, 
And applied them without ceasing 

To the handiwork of God. 



48 Poctrp of 

And in sorry plight he left me, 

And I passed the schoolhouse door 
With a fixed determination 

To enter it no more ; 
For the great Professor Minard, 

Though a noble man is he, 
Oh! dear children of his district. 

Try not his nobility. 




RECTOR UF SAINT PAUL'S, HROOKLVX— DRA^^l ATIC 
SOCIETY OE THE CHURCH. 

Paul as Censor. 
Tliroiic/h kindness of Paul's friends, the Misses Balliet. 



CJ)ilD{)OOD 49 



TO THE CLOSE COMMUNICANTS. 

This ain't the pen you didn't sell, 

Howe'er it suits us very well. 
And now we've got a post-card shop 

That, 'side of yours, is way up top. 

You keep your pens, — hang to 'em fast. 

Your fate is sealed. Your die is cast. 
Your post-card trade will stop for good. 

We sell 'em as a fellow should. 

You've got a hundred, maybe two, 
We've got a thousand 'side of you. 

Let's see you sell 'em six for five. 
On this low rate we live and thrive. 

Our corporate name is signed below, 
And I'm the boss, of course you know, 

And when you find that you're outdone, 
You'll find that we are number one. 

THE UNIVERSAL, AMERICAN, EURO- 
PEAN, ASIATIC, AUSTRALIAN, CA- 
NADIAN AND POLAR REGION GILT 
EDGED POST-CARD SUPPLY COM- 
PANY. 

CHIEF BOSS AND BIG GUN, YOUR RE- 
SPECTFUL BUT INDEPENDENT 
FRIEND, PAUL WARNER ESMOND. 



50 Poettp of 



DECEMBER. 

In a drear night of December 

Oh happy, happy tree 
Thy branches ne'er remember 

Their green feUcity, 

In a drear night of December 
Oh happy, happy brook 

Thy babbUngs ne'er remember 
Apollo's summer look, 

But with this sweet forgetting 
They stay their crystal fretting. 

Never, never petting 
About the frozen time. 

Ah! would 'twere so with many 

A little girl and boy ! 
But were there ever any 

That writhed not at past joy. 

To know the change and feel it, 
When there is none to heal it, 

Nor humbug sense to steal it, 
Was never said in rime. 




AUXTIE JESSIE AND HER SHADOW. 
A freak of Panl's camera, under his own hand. 




Orf the Playground long enough to be taken l)y his friend, 
Harold Livingston Thonnas, of West Point. X. Y. 



C{)iia{)OOD 51 



TO MY LOVE. 

With fairest flowers whilst Summer lasts 

Thy grave my love shall be strown, 
And when beneath the Winter's blasts 

The flowers have sunk, their beauty flown, 
Fond thoughts of thee shall deck thy place 
With all of beauty and of grace. 

Thou shalt not lack whilst Summer reigns 

Pale primrose, emblem of thy bloom, 
The azure'd harebell, like thy veins. 
The leaf of eglantine's perfume, 

Which, not to slander, cannot claim 
More sweetness than thine own loved 
name. 

From all that blooms most like to you 

Culled with so many a tender thought, 
Sw^eet nurselings of the sun and dew 
Shall daily by our hands be brought 
To deck the place where thou art laid 
And fit it for thy gentle shade. 

We'll gather for thee from the lawn 

Blue violets, most like thine own eyes, 
For they, like thee all pure, have drawn 
Their beauty from the fairest skies, 
Spreading their bosoms to the sun 
As thou thy heart to God hast done. 



52 Poettp of 

But sweeter far than breath of flowers 

Thy memory shall linger 'round 
Soothing our hearts the many hours 
We kneel close to thy hallow'd mound, 
And pour out all our souls in prayer 
That we thy purity may share. 

The fairies of a poet's heaven 

Shall sacred hold thy flowering sod, 
To angels shall the task be given 
To guard it hallov/ed to thy God, 

That none but wounded hearts repair 
To breathe their adoration there. 

The flowers we strew in bloom along, 

Meet emblems are they thus of thee ; 
And when their bloom and beauty's gone, 
Alas ! they still will emblems be. 
The fairest still since Eden's day 
Are sharers in a quick decay. 




My icaiidcriiu/ feci Jnivc trod tiicsc paths to-day 
lilicrc I so late, li'itli thcc, in ioxaiicc icctit. 



CftiltsftooD 53 



I LOVE THE BLESSED PATHS WHICH 
THE STILL FEET ONCE TROD. 

My wandering feet have trod those paths to- 
day 
Where I so late with thee in joyance went, 
And gladly thitherward my steps I bent, 

Turning me from the dust and din away 
And tracing with a saddened joy each spot 

Hallowed by some remembrance of thee; 
A smile, a tone, that cannot be forgot. 
Places whose every charm was won from thee. 
And therefore do I love the grassy way 

And every path that thou hast wandered 
o'er, 
And as a miser counts his secret store 

When darkness has obscured the light of 
day, 
So I in thy absence, which is my heart's night, 
Thy treasured words and smiles recall with 
deep delight, 
Dearest, thy name, as if sweet muses own. 
Hath e'er for me a strange and thrilling 
power. 
Like love-words whispered in the twilight lone 
Which melt the soul with their delicious 
dower. 



54 poetrp of 



THE BELLS OF PONTIAC. 

Those wedding bells! those wedding bells! 

What joy their swelling music tells. 
What promise of glad days to come 

Within the newly budding home. 

Those wedding bells! those wedding bells! 

As their sweet cadence sinks and swells, 
I dream of rapture and content, 

Of hours and days in joy well spent. 

The sweet confiding of two hearts, 
Of trusting love that never parts. 

The hands that, joined by Heaven's pure bann, 
Make one the maiden and the man. 

Those silver bells! those golden bells! 

Speak forth the birth of joy that wells 
From love sublime, — of heaven's peace. 

A promise that shall never cease. 

The world is wide, the skies are high, 
Their dream is of the by and by, 

WHien joy so strange, so new, so just. 
Shall ripen into perfect trust. 



CftilDftOOD 55 

Those wedding bells ! those wedding bells ! 

No dirge, no mournful sounding knells, 
Shall ever tell of blasted hope, 

Of broken vow, or sanded rope. 

For year on year their love shall grow 

Still brighter in the afterglow; 
And into heavenly union sweet 

Shall come at last their journeying feet. 

(Written for the wedding of his cousin, Hat- 
tie E. Wasmuth, of Pontiac, Illinois.) 



56 Poetrp of 



A TOAST TO SPAIN. 

I've roamed through your cities, and lovely 

and bright, 
Are the faces and forms that have greeted my 

sight. 
With cheeks where the bright rose has 

shadowed its hue, 
And the smiles that beam out from the eye's 

tender blue. 
A slave to their charms through the long day 

am I, 
But when night draws its star-studded veil 

o'er the sky, 
I break from their thraldom, and fly in my 

dreams 
Far away from the land where their fair 

beauty beams 
To the land where like water flows forth the 

red wine, 
To the land of the olive, the land of the vine, 
Where the bold mountains stoop o'er the 

soft rolling plain. 
To the land of my fathers, — my own native 

Spain. 

A.S swift as the wind my gay dreams bear me 
on, 



Cf)lIDi)OPD 57 

Over mountain and valley, o'er hillock and 

stone, 
Over churches and coverts all hoary and old. 
With their stones thick encrusted with cen- 
turies' mold, 
Like lightning I speed, nor take rest in my 

flight, 
Till the home of my childhood breaks full on 

my sight. 
By the Douro that rushes to meet the blue 

sea. 
Through the loveliest of valleys that e'er there 

could be. 
To the land where like water flows forth the 

red wine, 
To the land of the olive, the land of the vine, 
Where the bold mountains stoop o'er the 

soft rolling plain, 
To the land of my fathers, — my own native 

Spain. 

And the scene that my heart ever paints to me 
there 

Is an avenue bordered with foliage rare 

Where the air is perfumed with the orange 
and lime 

And the sky wears the blue of our warm south- 
ern clime, 

And beneath its cool shade wander maidens as 
bright 

As the Houris that rove through the gardens 
of light. 

For the brightest and fairest of beauty's gay 
train 



58 poetrp of 

Are the maidens that smile in our own sunny 

Spain : 
To the land where like water flows forth the 

red wine, 
To the land of the olive, the land of the vine, 
Where the bold mountains stoop o'er the 

soft rolling plain. 
To the land of my fathers, — my own native 

Spain. 



And I watch for the one w^hom I parted with 
there, 

With her dark sparkling eyes and her raven- 
black hair. 

And the light veil that shaded with each grace- 
ful fold 

A cheek that was fashioned in beauty's soft 
mold, 

With a swift springing step and a lithe grace- 
ful form, 

And a soul that beams out unfettered and 
warm ; 

Ah ! when but in dreams shall I welcome again 

That fair girl that I left in my own sunny 
Spain. 
To the land where like water flows forth the 

red wine. 
To the land of the olive, the land of the vine, 
Where the bold mountains stoop o'er the 

soft rolling plain. 
To the land of my fathers, — my own native 
Spain. 



CftilD&ooD 59 

Now drink, my good friends, and fill up to the 

brim. 
Scout sorrow and trouble, let mirth enter in, 
Quaff off the red wine to our own well-loved 

Spain, 
To that land rich in beauty, that land rich in 

fame. 
There is not an ocean that knows not her flag. 
There is not a country that loves not her crag, 
So pledge me, I pray ye, with good hearts and 

true, 
To a land of such beauty now waiting for you, 
To the land where like water flows forth the 

red wine, 
To the land of the olive, the land of the vine. 
Where the bold mountains stoop o'er the 

soft rolling plain, 
To the land of my fathers, — my own native 
Spain. 



6o Poettp of 



A CHILD'S THOUGHT. 

(After a Storm.) 

She stood with open lips and earnest eye 

Her face turned upward toward the sombre 
sky 
Watching the heavy clouds that o'er the blue 
The deepening darkness of their shadows 
threw, 
While ever and anon a quivering light 

Burst from their folds and made them briefly 
bright, 
A moment's splendor, quenched in deeper 
gloom. 
And followed by the far off thunder's boom. 

Delight, half tempered by religious awe, 

Kindled her face at all she heard and saw, 
And her clear eye grew brighter with the glow 

Of thoughts that stirred her bosom's depth 
below. 
What radiant vision to her gaze was given? 

What rapturous melody was heard from 
heaven? 
For who beheld her then, all eye, all ear. 

Tranced in a bliss too perfect for our sphere, 
Might well believe she held communion high 



CftilDftooD 6i 

With the pure spirits of the upper sky, 
And heard the songs that ransomed spirits 
sing, 
And golden harps with music quivering. 

"Daughter," her mother said with gentlest 
tone, 
"Too long you linger while the rain comes 
on. 
"Haste, for the clouds grow darker. 

"It will storm." And then the child 
Looked in her mother's serious face, and 
smiled 
With more of meaning than could be allied 
To human words. "O, Mother dear," she cried, 

As burst again the thunder's sullen roar, 
"I hear God's horses trampling heaven's high 
floor." 



62 Poettp of 



THE SAVIOUR'S CALL. 

Now as our Lord was journeying 

By the Galilean sea, 
He saw two brothers fishing, 

And whispered, "Follow Me." 

And straightway Andrew followed. 

With Peter by his side. 
And then in awe-struck wonder 

They listened to their Guide. 

He stood one hand uplifted 

Toward God's immortal throne, 

And speaking to the brothers 
In a soul inspiring tone, 

He cried, "Fishermen, I will make you 

Fishers of men alone." 
And as He turned, departing, 

They followed the Holy One. 




AS A MEMBER OF SAEXT GEORGE'S CHOIR— XEW 

BURGH. 

Tlic voice that sang God's praises with the earthly choir 

Has joined itmiuiiibered hosts around His throne, 

There is now on earth, no beauty, no rose ■leitliout it brier, 

And so lee make our pilgrimage alone. 

But if tlie Master's business has need of liim above, 

And ive sit in tears and long to hear his song, 

It is blessed to remember, lie still z^'orks above in love. 

And our journey, to his field of toil, -zeill not be long. 




OVERLOOKING THE HUDSON. 
At the Summer House, Downing Park. 

/;/ the better zcorld beyond us, free from pain and strife 
The fJozvers exhale a healing for all zvoe : 

The balmy air around them is freighted with neiv life, 
The shady leaves will shield from ez'ery foe. 



G&ilDftooD 63 



GENTLE WORDS. 

Use gentle words, for who can tell 

The blessings they impart? 
How oft they fall, as manna fell, 

On some nigh fainting heart. 

In lonely wilds, by light-winged birds 
Rare seeds have oft been sown ; 

And hope has sprung from gentle words, 
Where only griefs had grown. 



64 poetrp of 



ABSENCE OF A LOVED ONE. 

Beloved, how slowly flee the hours, 

How heavily Time speeds on his wings, 

Nature, though robed in beauteous flowers, 
To my sad heart no pleasure brings. 

Hope on my pathway does not smile. 
Nor joy my footsteps yet illume. 

Sadness which mirth can ne'er beguile 
Spreads o'er my soul its deepest gloom. 

When shall the music of thy voice 
Sweep o'er me its melodious strain? 

When shall thy beaming face rejoice 
And lighten o'er my heart again? 




Taken by Paul's friend, W. Dewey Decker, 
of Xew York Citv. 




U'Jirii st(irni-st(iyi\I icitJiiii chess i^'us /'(/;r/'.v fiii'oritr </aiiu\ Hi 
icds a skilled /^iayrr and kiicic ail nth's by heart. 




PAUL'S -jack; 

•'Would I could riv 



(Taken by Paul.) 



C!)ilDJ)OOD 65 



VICTORY. 

Rise, rise ye forms of earthly dust, 

Ye are but half a century's rust. 

Arise, I say, and look on high 

Toward Him Who cometh from the sky. 

A soul's within thy walls of clay 
That no man's human power can slay, 
Yea, built by God, and God alone, 
To be a jewel in His throne. 

And as the stars shine out at night 

And represent a Heavenly light, 

And as the sun illumes the day, 

Thou should'st illumine thy earthly way. 

And not pervert by sin and shame 
Thy wondrous and almighty name ; 
That name for which our dear Lord bled. 
The name of "Christian"— Jesus led. 

That name has struck the martyr's head. 
And sent his body to the tomb, 
That name that made the saint fall dead 
To rise again in heavenly bloom. 



66 Poetrp of 

What is its power? And yet I know 

Nor earthly sway nor undcrtoAV. 

It is a crown of glory bright. 

And knowledge that we've won the fight. 



/ 



r 



mm 




W 



L.T. 



CftildfiopD 67 



ENTERED INTO REST. 

Joy! for a spirit's birth, 
Joy ! for a broken chain ; 

Joy ! that the heavy bonds of earth 
Will ne'er unite again. 

Joy ! for a Saviour's love, 

Joy! that she bore the cross; 

Joy ! in her heavenly home above 
She feeleth not our loss. 

Joy ! that the task is done, 
Joy ! that all pain is o'er ; 

Joy ! that the goal is v^on, — 
Won for evermore. 



68 Poettp of 



THE CHASE, LADY BIRD WINS. 

Horse and away, the horn winds gay, 
O'er field and o'er meadow. 
To horse and aAvay, 
The hounds still bay and the horses neigh 
Oh, pledge me, my friends. 
To horse and away. 
What thrills our frame and stirs our soul. 
As much as the distant. 
Rumbling roll 
As the hound's low bay sounds far away. 
On some distant knoll. 

The blood runs high ; there is sport for aye, 
In the chase so fleet, 

The best shall beat, 
So we urge our steed, and no danger heed, 

In the mad rush's heat. 
The stag is down, the hounds are in, 

The horses foam, loud rings the din, 
The penant fair, entwines her hair, 
For the owner of Lady-bird, 
Won the lair. 




MY STEED. 



MY STEED=- 




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JLiH U. *1Wvv^ '^-T!)- (^■»■^ ^ ^-<A ^<J. U, U^hi.^aJ^ii^ 

. 1-^ (. _h_i ■?=:>.■ ^ ■ . i > — t ■ . >. . 






CftilDftooO ^ 



MY STEED. 

My steed, my steed, my gallant steed, 
He proudly steps, so light, so free; 

As swift as eagle's flight his speed 
When lightly bounding o'er the lea, 

With arching neck and flowing mane. 
His hoofs scarce touch the grassy plain. 

My noble steed, how bright his eye ! 

How startling is his thrilling neigh ! 
His head he tosses toward the sky. 

Then like a deer he springs away. 
And when his rider's voice he hears 

He points like feathered darts his ears. 

My steed, my steed, my prancing steed, 

How gallantly he bears me on, 
Leaping each fence his paths impede. 

O'er hedge and bank we lightly spring 
Swift as an eagle on the wing, 
Onward, until the goal is won. 



70 Poetrp of 



THE SLEEPING TWINS. 

Oh ! beautiful is childhood's sleep 

As summer's long and sunny day, 
When gentle streams in murmurs leap 

And glide in purity away, 
Giving to grassy banks their spray 

To deck them with a freshening green. 
Where midst their shade the fairies play. 

And tribes of tuneful birds are seen. 

There in each other's arms they lie, 

Like Love and Peace together laid, 
While softly o'er each drooping eye 

Falls its fair lid's protecting shade. 
Their romping gladness now has weighed 

Those airy forms to sweet repose, — 
Sleep on, — no opiate can persuade 

Such rest as careless childhood knows. 

Yes, let them sleep among the flowers, 
Where from their rosy cheeks each tress 

Is flung abroad in golden showers 
Upon the mossy bed they press. 

Their dreams perchance we may not guess. 
But if those smiles aright can tell. 



CljilDftooD 71 

Fancies of cloudless happiness 

Within those infant bosoms swell. 

Ah ! little, little do they deem, 

While in those flowery woods they stray 
Giving their hearts to rapture's dream. 

That thoughts of fear and sad dismay 
Fill the far home, where day by day 

Their steps were watched with jealous care 
Lest haply to the brook they stray 

And find a death of terror there. 

And here as peacefully they lie 

As if upon their downy bed, 
Where every night their lullaby 

In tuneful harmony is said. 
Look ! how the rose inclines its head 

As if its beauty now were shown 
In envy of the cheeks whose red 

Is fresh and blooming as its own. 

I gaze, ye lovely slumberers 

On this your picture of content! 
And what a tide of feeling stirs, 

Raised by this gentle sentiment, 
In the deep caverns of my heart ; 

A tide that overwhelms the soul 
With thoughts that make our nature start, 

Or bid the tears of anguish roll. 

Oh for a sleep as calm and pure 

"As that unconscious childhood knew, 
When rest comes down unwooed and sure, 
Light as the drops of summer dew; — 



7^ Poetrp of 

Oh that, when years in long review 

Have brought us cause to sigh and weep, 

We could bring back the charm that threw 
Its bliss around our early sleep. 




JESSIE LOUISE AND MIRIAM WYLIE AND PAUL. 

The girls are Illinois cousins and the "Sleeping Twins" was 
dedicated to them. 



o^>M\ vceY**S •'•"^ •^ -C*^. MU. diX ~Muf¥f 



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W, VA>AV> »:«, |r^ * C.r,-j^,.c *^-|l«., -^ »^ lCl-*r^, •,<**<»«, ^ 



Cf)ilDf)OOD 75 



IMITATION OF PAUL. 

With an armful of nasturtiums, to a friend, 
in the hospital — carrying on the work he loved to 
do — the flowers fresh with morning dew, from 
his own garden. 

To my dear Friend : — 

Hope, comfort, peace, from this my home 
above. 
Would I could hand you one eternal 

flower. 
But as I cannot, here's my changeless 

love. 
And blossoms of an hour. 

Lovingly, 

Paul. 



7^ l^oettp of 



HAIL AND FAREWELL. 

Thus, ,'*Come" and ''Gone," — What strange ex- 
tremes 

These syllables express ! 
The first may herald hope's fond dreams. 
Possession to success. 
The last is eloquent of woe 
The saddest that we mortals know. 

'Tis deprivation's deepest sigh 

Breathed low beneath the evening sky, 

Starless and cold, — whose fading ray 
Can promise no returning day. 

''Hail" and "Farewell" — 'tis smiles and tears 
Blent as the rainbow with the storm. 
The epitome of hopes and fears, 
The rosebud and the worm. 
*Tis life's stern contrast, and must be 
The motto of mortality. 



Consolation, 





MHv*ajaiii?titP»^i'.'Vvr.*v»«rt6ao^i--aB*V*««f^*«^^ 



3 Bljall not mant i^t makrtlj 
mr tn lit &0um in tlj^ gr^^n 
paatur^B. i^t l^aJurth me bt- 
Bxht tlj0 HttU tuaters. Uestor- 

I tl|e patl|H 0f riglftMitaneBB for 
i^'xB name*0 sake. 

^ea, tijnuglf 3 malk tijrnugtf 
tije l&alleg af ^Iiabnm nf 
I I Sratlj, 3f mill fear nn eiitl, for 
I i ®It0u art mttlj me ; ®ljg rob atti 
I I oltiy staff tljejr romfort me. 
I I (Jtjnu prepareat a table before 
me in tlje presenre of mtne 
enemteH : ®ljou anotnteHt m^ 
heab mttlj oil ; mg rup runnetlt 
oner. S^urelg ^oobneHS anh 
S merry sljall follom me all ttje 
I Saga of m^ Hife nnh 3( mill 
itmell in tlje Ifonae of tlje ICorJi 
I foretter. XXIII Psalm. 




CftilDftOOD '77 



ENDURE THE TEST— THE MORNING 
COMES. 

Life is an ocean strangely fraught 
With woe and weal that we know not ; 
But well we know that trials deep 
Across our pathway ever sweep, 
And trouble's heavy load alway 
With shadows hides the glorious day. 
Look! Heavenly radiance! sweet, sublime 
As beacon lights on high still shine. 

Oh God ! oh God, when pass away 
The loved ones from our own short da}^, 
We pray that when to-morrow's light 
Touches the mists of this our night, — 
That when we see the heaven above 
And think of our Redeemer's love, 
That we may see it was the best 
To try us with that awful test. 



78 Poettp of 



MY HEART BREAKS, MY GIRLIE'S 
DEAD. 

For my Girlie's left me, 

Left me all alone, 
All alone to ponder 

O'er her empty throne, 
For she was a Princess, 

Princess of my heart. 
Oh, it's all so quiet, 

And my life's so dark. 

For my Girlie's left me 

For another clime, 
And I've oft, oft wondered 

At that will Divine 
That has so deprived me 

Of my earthly shrine, 
And my mind oft wonders 

Why this lot is mine. 

For my Girlie's left me. 

Left me, don't you know, 
O'er and o'er I'm wishing 

That I, too, might go, 
Go and join my Girlie, 

Go and join my love, 
Go and join my darling 

In those realms above. 



For my Girlie's left me, 

Left me here to pine, 
Wishing every moment 

For the end of time. 
When I hear her birdie 

Singing by the door, 
Ever still Fm wishing 

For that other shore. 

Oh, I miss my Girlie, 

Miss her every day. 
Miss her, Oh so often. 

From my side away. 
Oh, my God ! when will you 

End these weary days ? 
Oh, I pray Thee, hasten 

All Thy loving ways. 

Life has now no pleasure 

Since my Girlie's gone. 
All the days are tedious, 

All the nights are long. 
Oh, give me my Girlie, 

Give her back to me 
Oh, I cry for mercy, 

Cry on bended knee. 

I would cast my fortune 

In the deep blue sea, 
I would wreck my palaces 

Only to be free ; 
For my heart is broken. 

Broken, yea, in twain, 
And the bonds that bind it 

God's eternal chain. 



8o Ipoetrp of 

Give me back my Girlie, 

'T is my only cry, 
I live but to battle 

With this mighty sigh. 
Oh, my God! my Maker! 

Wilt Thou not consent? 
All my life is wretched. 

Happiness is spent. 




y.'. >- -K '— ' 



-T ' ? 






Caf^yright 1906, IVolf & Co. 
]\"iih kind permission. 




The latest shadow of Panh 
(Taken in the hiter days of August, 1906.) 



C{)il»booD 8i 



REST WITH THEE, O GOD. 

As when the mission dove of old 

Skimmed with slow flight the spreading main 

And ne'er his weary wings could fold 

Till welcomed in the ark again, 
So, tossed upon the rougher wave 
Of human passion's restless sea, 
No haven to my soul they gave 
Till my worn heart found rest with Thee. 

Like to the fruit all gilded o'er 
Which turns to dust within the hand. 
Or like the lake which flies before 
The traveler on the desert sand, 

The pleasures which my wild youth sought 

Proved but a bitter cup to me ; 

Yet sweet the lesson which has taught 

My weary heart to rest with Thee. 

And now when worn with earthly care, 
With weary strife for fame or gold, 
The fierce encounters men must bear. 
Which make the warmest heart groAv cold, 
Thy words, Thy deeds, have magic power 
From their dark spells to set me free. 
And glad I hail the tranquil hour 
When my worn heart finds rest with Thee. 



^2 Poetrp of 



LIFE'S VICTORY. 

No more we're waging the eternal battle, 
No more we're struggling with our heavy load, 
No more our ship is hurled upon the billows. 
We rest with God. 

At last the mighty strife is over. 
No more we struggle with the surging waves. 
We stand and gaze at demons lined before us ; 
They are our slaves. 

We've conquered, and we've kept that mighty 

standard, 
No more we need with blood its folds uphold. 
No more need we protect with soul and body 
Its every fold. 

We've conquered, and we stand again unbaf- 

fled, 
We stand upon the summit of success, 
Happy to think that from their snares around 

us 
We fought to happiness. 









^ 9 
















CI)ilDJ)OOD 83 



HOME OF THE SOUL. 

As the shadows gathered, a little while be- 
fore the Eternal morning came, Paul said, 
"Father, sing me the 'Home of the Soul.' " 
And with his mother and grandmother his 
clear voice joined in this his favorite hymn. 

"I will sing you a song of that beautiful land, 

The far away home of the soul 
Where no storms ever beat on the glittering 
strand, 
While the years of eternity roll ; 
While the years of eternity roll ; 
Where no storms ever beat on that glittering 
strand. 
While the years of eternity roll. 

Oh, that home of the soul, in my visions and 
dreams. 

Its bright jasper walls I can see; 
Till I fancy but dimly the veil intervenes 

Between that fair city and me ; 

Between that fair city and me ; 
Till I fancy but dimly the veil intervenes 

Between that fair city and me. 

Oh, how sweet it will be in that beautiful land. 
So free from all sorrow and pain, 



84 Poetrp of 

With song's on our lips, and with harps in our 
hands, 
To meet one another again ; 
To meet one another again ; 
With songs on our lips and with harps in our 
hands, 
To meet one another again. 

There the great trees of life in their beauty do 
grow, 

And the river of life floweth by : 
For no death ever enters that city you know, 

And nothing that maketh a lie ; 

And nothing that maketh a lie ; 
For no death ever enters that city you know, 

And nothing that maketh a lie." 

E. H. Gates. Philip Philips. 



CftilDijooO 



LINES IN MEMORY OF LITTLE HER- 
BERT MUSTIN. 

From us a dear one has gone, 

A voice we loved is stilled ; 
The place made vacant at home 

Can never more be filled. 

So sudden came the message, 

That we heard not the rustling wings 

Of the dark robed Angel that bore him 
From his parents to heav'nly things. 

He lingered not long in the valley, 

For scarce had his feet pressed the sod, 

Before the freed spirit had entered 
Its home in the presence of God. 

His little playmates all loved him, 
And from each dear one tears fell, 

As they gathered around his casket 
And bade the sleeper farewell. 

So they smoothed the hair from his forehead. 
Placed the dear little hands on his breast; 

With flowers frona Paul in his casket, 
They laid little Herbert to rest. 



86 POCttp Of 

Bowing- low in deepest submission, 
Though our hearts are sad and lone, 

We would say : O Thou who gavest, 
Not our will but thine be done. 

— By a Grandma. 

Herbert Mustin, a sweet child, well known 
to Paul, died a few months after Paul fell 
asleep. Flowers from Paul's own garden 
were placed in the dear departed little boy's 
hand when he was buried. 




.-icross the floii.'crs that ci'oi'.'ii /ilni 

Into his guarded tent: 
11 e (jaze to see life's soldier, yoinu/ and fair. 
But our ehief is noic off duty. 

Oh shoie us -ichere he leejit. 
And l:7in</ly we'll )nake orr journey there. 



l^ 



€:i)iibi)ooD 87 



IN MEMORY OF PAUL. 

BY FLAVIA BENNETT. 

Your mission is accomplished, little Paul, 
Your spirit has fled to realms above, 

You have answered, dear, the Master's call, 
Are at peace in His infinite love. 

How cheerfully you bore your cross of pain. 
How bravely withheld your rising tears, 

Struggling to conceal the hardest strain 

From those you loved best, to allay their 
fears. 

Though hard, don't wish him back from the 
goal. 

Imagine what it all means to him — 
Relief from every care of the soul, 

A home in a land that is free from all sin. 

It is there God gathers his rarest flowers, 
'Tis there faith is crowned with certainty. 

The inhabitants ne'er count o'er the hours. 
For time is merged in eternity. 

*Tis there he waits, with those gone before, 
The loved ones he left, whom he bade fare- 
well, 



88 Poettp of 

When the summons came to the other shore, 
Where only God's purest and best-loved 
dwell. 

The future looks dark through our blinding 
tears. 
Perhaps life just now has lost its zest, 
But sometime, perchance not for many years, 
We shall see God was right — that His way 
was best, 

And had you power to read future years, 
With their sorrows and perils unbeknown, 

You might gladly dry your falling tears, 
And thank our Father our dear one is home. 

God knew its weight, when He sent thee this 
Cross, — 
Knew thy depth of pain, and each anguish 
shared. 
Yet thy wounding will mitigate thy grief. 
As it reveals all that thy loved one was 
spared. 

Though thy life is now shipwrecked in sorrow, 
In thy deep grief thou art not alone, 

And somewhere in God's bright to-morrow. 
Thy dear one will welcome thee home. 

Though his years were but few, remember the 
seed 
Sown by his hand under God's own direc- 
tion. 

The harvest garnered for others' need 



God alone can foresee in its glorious perfec- 
tion. 

For the seed thus sown was sweet deeds of 
love, 
Kindly actions, with smiles of cheer. 
Sweet influences guiding dear souls above,^ 
The rain that replenished,— the pitying 
tear. 

And as long as a thought of that sweet pure 
face , 

Keeps one, tempted, from Satan s power, 
A treasured word helps thee to endure. 

And his changeless smile brightens every 
hour. 

Though he does not speak,— make his wishes 
known, — 

From his home in the higher sphere, 
If each day you make his works your own, 

Do for others as planned by him here, 

His work will continue on earth for years, ^ 
After his loved ones leave this world's pam, 

If his memory soothes another's tears, 
His months of trial are not in vain. 

When thy work is done, and God calls thee 
home, . 

Close to thy loved ones— thy Saviour near, 
An instant of peace on earth, unknown, 

Will more than repay for all anguish here. 



90 Poettp of 

The sweet heart that penned these lines of 
blessed memory for the sleeping boy did so on 
a bed of suffering, from which she has not 
risen for more than twenty long years. 




"DOCTOR." 
Waiting for his master. 



C|)iID|)00li 91 



IN MEMORIAM. 

A few sweet words about Paul, culled from 
the hundreds of letters sent by loving friends, 
expressive of their remembrance of the boy. 

"There must be great rejoicing with the 
angels over the return home of such a beauti- 
ful soul." 

— Ira D. Minard. 

"Remember the bud executes its mission, 
just as fully as the full blown flower." 

— /. Halstead Carroll, D. D. 

"FOR LITTLE PAUL 
His little feet, 

In the golden street, 

Will never go astray." 
— Harriet L. Matthews. 

"I knew and loved the boy. Ere he was 
soiled by sin, that lovely soul entered upon 
the noble life beyond." 

— T. H. Baragwanath, D, D. 

"May God sustain you as you walk through 
the empty halls, and close the school books 



93 poetrp of 

and examination papers, and put the kings, 
bishops and all his men in a quiet corner. The 
battle is over. Our soldier is off duty. Vali- 
antly he fought for life. I marvelled always 
at his wonderful courage." 

— Mary IV. Anderson. 

**How tightly shall I grasp his verses now — 
little gems from the rich mine of his pure 
heart." 

— Harold Livingston Thomas. 

"We know it is much harder to bury the 
young, hopeful and useful ones, than those 
who have lived out their lives." 

— Ida A. Rowley. 

"Accept these flowers in token of the bright- 
est memories of Paul. If you wish put them 
on his grave." 

— Frances G. Gorrie. 

"Only those who knew him and had learned 
to love him can ever appreciate what his death 
means to us all." 

— Mabel T. Leeper. 

"The little brook Avhich waters a few fields 
fulfils the office assigned to it by Providence, 
as truly as the mighty river, which bears on 
its bosom the commerce of a nation." 

— Katharine J. Tilley, 



CftilDftooD 93 

"As Leigh Hunt says, Paul has been ren- 
dered an immortal child. I also quote from 
Robert Louis Stevenson : 

IN MEMORIAM. 

Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O remember 
How of human days he lived the better part. 

April came to bloom and never dim December 
Breathed its killing chills upon the head or 
heart. 

Doomed to know not Winter, only Spring, a 
being 
Trod the flowery April blithely for awhile, 
Took his fill of music, joy and thought and 
seeing, 
Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased 
to smile. 

Came and stayed and went, and now when all 
is finished, 
You alone have crossed the melancholy stream, 
Yours the pang, not his, O his, the undi- 
minished, 
Undecaying gladness, undeparted dream. 

All that life contains of torture, toil and trea- 
son, 
Shame, dishonor, death, to him were but a 
name. 

Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing 
season 



94 Poettp of 

And ere the day of sorrow departed as he 
came." 

Faithfully, 

— IV il Ha in Vaitamee. 

"I loved Paul for his intellect, for his win- 
ning, cheerful disposition, for a thousand 
qualities in which he excelled every other 
child I ever knew." 

— Isabel M. Samuels. 

''You can do nothing more for him, all that 
is ended, but he can do much, very much for 
you. The influence of his memory will mould 
your life henceforth to ever nobler ends." 

— Walter C. Anthony. 

"Your dear boy, whom you loved and cared 
for so faithfully, that he might be prepared for 
the Master's service, has been called into a 
higher place in that service — into the imme- 
diate presence of our Lord, in His everlasting 
kingdom." 

— Rev. J. G. D. and Mrs. Mary Gormley 
Findley. 

"I think of sweet Paul sleeping beneath the 
lilies he loved so much, himself the fairest lily 
of them all." 

— Harriet E. Stouffer. 

"I cannot say, and I will not say, 

That they are dead, — they are just av/ay ; 
With a cheery smile and a wave of the hand, 



CftilDftOPD 95 

They have wandered off to an unknown 
land, 
And left us dreaming how very fair 

That land must be, since they are there." 

— Mary Humphrey. 

"I hope that sometime I can take your hand 
in mine and express — not in cold written 
words — all the loving sympathy I feel for you 
and the dear mother, whose jewel has been 
set in Heaven, above the human reach ; may 
God and his angels, among whom you have 
one of the sweetest, rarest gems, hold, guide 
and guard you, is the earnest and never ceas- 
ing prayer of your sincere friend." 

— Charille Runals. 

"When the older ones die there is always a 
doubt, whether they can enter into eternal 
life, but the little ones, the children, are safe." 

— hies E. Crane. 

"The pearly gates were opened 

And glowing seraphs smiled. 
And with their golden harp strings 

Welcomed the little child. 

Oh, could you see through those high gates 

The welcome to him given. 
You never more would wish your child 

Back from his home in Heaven." 

—Will'iam H. Hilton. 

"Yet there is something left for you to do. 



96 Poettp of 

Deeds of kindness that he would have you do, 
carrying out his wishes and desires here on 
earth, as best you may, 

And struggling on with hope and trust, 
Since He Who knows our need is just. 
And somewhere, somehow, meet we must." 
— Mr. and Mrs. William N. Miiity. 

"There is nothing in the memory of Paul's 
beautiful life, that can give you any remorse." 
— Sarah C. D. Senior. 

"We do not know and we cannot tell what 
He wanted Paul for just now, but Ave certainly 
do know that the child is happy, and though 
we sorrow here, all will be joy hereafter." 
— Anna E. F. Deisseroth. 

"He has left the heart's entire domain a 
waste, and a desolation. Oh ! the great sorrow 
in the removal of that precious treasure." 
— Rev. Edzvard and Mrs. Orpha Wasmuth. 

"Many of our people sorrow with you in 
your great loss." 

— Lewis Day Williams, D. D. 

"Paul's many virtues had endeared him to 
me, and I have always been interested in him, 
since the year he spent with me in the school 
room." 

— Lucia C. Twiname, 




When will my master come- — he tarries lung. 



Ci)iID{)Ooa 97 

''Your beloved Paul was a wonderful child 
and scarcely seemed to belong to this world. 
Your great grief fell on me this morning as a 
personal loss." 

— Anna R. Gazzain. 

*'My most tender sympathy, there is no light 
save that of the cross." 

— Arthur Janiieson, D. D. 

"Dear precious Paul. He was such a beau- 
tiful, blessed boy, we cannot understand why 
he was called higher, but we know the Master 
had need of such a rare spirit and took him to 
Himself." 

— Fannie S. Beattie. 

"In Paul's death I feel w^e have lost one of 
our best and dearest pupils. God's ways are 
not our ways surely." 

— Jean C. Hamilton. 

"I always loved the beautiful brilliant boy. 
This world can ill afford to lose one so lovely." 

— Eliza Arhuckle, 

"I want to thank you for the dear present as 
from dear little Paul. You do not knoAv how 
much we prize it. I am so shocked at his 
death. Oh, he was such a dear lovely child, 
but too bright and sweet for this world." 

— Mary Bacon Moore Dunlap. 

"As my dear departed brother once said, so 



98 Poetrp of 

I say of dear little Paulus, 'I suppose God 
wants some of the rare flowers in His garden.' 
I do not think there was ever so rare or sweet 
a flower culled as our dear little Paul, — a dear 
sweet violet." 

—Esther B. Balliet. 

"We have recorded in the minutes the sym- 
pathy of the vestry and of the whole congre- 
gation. Paul did so much to brighten the 
pages of the parish paper." 

—Robert M. Darbee, 
For Vestry of S. Paul's Church, 

Brooklyn, New York. 

"The Shepherd. 

A blessed vision through the night 

Still all my happy senses sway, 
Of the Good Shepherd on the height, 

Or climbing up the starry way. 

Holding our little lambs asleep. 
And like the burden of the lea, 

Smoothing their waves along the deep 
Saying, 'Arise and follow me.' " 

— Matilda Nichols. 

"Having Paul as a private pupil I seemed 
to get better acquainted with him, and soon 
loved him. I think of him many, many times." 

— May E. Delancy, 

"God, grant your faith fail not. Let us re- 
call Longfellow's words, 



CftilDbooO 99 

Shall I have naught that is fair, said he, 

Have naught but the bearded gram, 
Though the breath of the flowers is sweet to 
me 

I shall give them all back again, 
And the Mother gave in tears and pain 

The flowers of 'her greatest love. 
She knew she w^ould find them all agam 

In the Paradise above. 

—Prof, and Mrs. Albert M. Fowler, 

"You and yours are in our thoughts and 
remembered in our prayers. May the time 
soon come when what is such a bitter grief 
becomes a very tender and precious memory. 

—William H. Ford. 

"We realize the sunshine of life has sud- 
denly become extinguished for you. Dear, dear 
little Paul ; his spiritual insight was a thing so 
wonderful and so mature that he did not seem 
like an ordinary boy destined to the ordinary 
career and the rude struggles of life. He 
seemed like a thing apart— some rare and 
beautiful flow^er. He was so noble and full 
of spiritual beauty. Perhaps his mission was 
too great for this world and that God caUed 
him to a larger field of usefulness beyond." 
— Antoinette E. Gazzam. 

The following poem was sent by Miss Jen- 
nie Graham in memory of Paul's dear friend, 
Miss Grace A. Minty, who walks with Paul in 
Heaven : 



loo Poettp of 

Beside the dead I knelt in prayer, 
And felt a Presence as I prayed, 

Lo ! it was Jesus standing there, 
He said, *'Be not afraid!" 

"Lord, Thou hast conquered death we know; 

Restore again to life," I said 
"This one who died an hour ago." 

He said: "She is not dead!" 

"Asleep then. Thou. Thyself didst say, 
Yet thou canst lift the lids that keep 

Her pinioned eyes from ours away ! 
He smiled: "She does not sleep." 

Xay then, though haply she doth wake, 
And look upon some fairer dawn. 

Return her to our hearts that ache. 
He smiled: "She is not gone." 

Alas, too well we know our loss. 
Nor hope again our joy to touch 

Until the stream of death we cross. 
He smiled: "There is no such." 

To you, fear, death, absence and loss. 
Appall your soul, you cannot see, 

Hope fades away, — becomes as dross. 
He smiled : "The child's with Me." 

"Oh, how you will miss the bright, win- 
some, beautiful Paul, the brightress of the 
home, so thoughtful, so kind, so gifted. How 



hard to live without him. How joyful the 
thought, we shall see him aeain." 

— Ahhie E. Becker. 



"Paul was such a dear boy, — the light of 
the home. As my mind goes over the house, 
there is not a place but he is there. I can 
almost feel the sweet kiss he gave me. I often 
wondered at his being so patient in suffering, 
many, many times to resign some pleasure. 
And he was such a comfort to all, every one 
loved him as his uncle writes in the obituary: 
'No lovelier flower has been culled from 
earthly gardens to grace the Heavenly 
Courts.' He is safe with the Saviour he rev- 
erenced, in that beautiful 'Home of the Soul' 
of which he loved to sing." 

— Sophia A, Waller. 

"Words seem to have left me. I cannot 
realize the sad news, but I Avant you all to 
know that I, too, share your deep grief. I 
know you will understand my feelings. I 
cannot express them." 

— W. Dewey Decker, 

"I to-day saw in the Tribune the death no- 
tice of Paul, and I have not in many a day had 
such sorrow as after reading it. I suppose 
such happenings are all right, but I cannot 
quite understand." 

—Horace G. IVcstlake, M. D, 



I02 Poetrp of 

''Surely earth has an angel less — Heaven 
one more." 

— Mr. and Mrs. James A. Tozvnsend. 

''Paul's early departure is an unspeakable 
loss. He gave so much promise of comfort 
and joy. We cannot understand — only trust." 
— James B. B. Bnindage. 

"I liked little Paul so much, and shall al- 
ways remember him as he appeared when we 
were your guests. He was so delightfully 
bright and entertaining." 

— Jeannctte K. Geissler. 

This morning I learned of the death of 
Paul. It was only a few months ago I had a 
most enjoyable talk with him at the Court 
House. I am deeply grieved." 

— Albert S. Emhler. 

"Your Paul was needed in that beautiful 
Home beyond the skies. How fondly you 
cherished him, and he will await your coming 
in the by and bye." 

— James and Mary McGihbin. 

**I have only one son, and can appreciate 
your suffering and loss. ]\Iay God in his 
mercy give you strength to bear it." 

— A. H. F. Seeger, 

''It was with profound sorrow we learned 
of your sad loss in the death of that dear little 



boy. Had hoped and prayed God would spare 
him to you." 

— Mr. and Mrs. William E. Brokcnshazv. 

"Only this morning heard of the passing of 
Paul. He has found his star early, and is prob- 
ably saved much that we of riper age have 
suffered. God knows best." 

— Hulda R. Johnson. 

''May He who has taken your darling Paul 
to His beautiful Home comfort and sustain 
you." 

— Celestia S. Shaffer. 

"I esteemed Paul not only as my good cus- 
tomer, but as a lovable and loving friend 
whom it was always a pleasure to see." 

— Nathan S. Smith. 

"1 will never forget the last time I clasped 
hands with dear little Paul. He was so 
thoughtful of Mamie's and my pleasure. He 
is now happy w4th all the loved ones who were 
waiting to receive him. He is not alone." 

— Sarah A. Hcrskcll. 

"The news that Cousin Paul had left you 
was a great shock to us, coming while the mel- 
ody of his verses on our wedding was still in 
our ears. I well remember the beautiful child 
he was when I visited you at Warner Place." 
— Hattie Wasumth Peirce. 



I04 ppetrp of 

"Dear little Paul was a most lovable boy, 
of charming personality, yet I would not wish 
him back, for he is so truly happy, and it will 
not be many years before we shall see him 
again." 

— Frances J. Cronan. 

"My heart goes out in a way I cannot ex- 
press at the loss of your precious boy." 

— Harriet W. Round. 

"Mrs. Ritchie dearly loves flowers and high- 
ly appreciates your gift. She was especially 
touched by the linking of it with the bright 
young life that the Father took to Himself." 

— Samuel Ritchie. 

"The death of Paul has cast a heavy shadow 
over your home. You all must miss his 
merry, cheerful presence. We mourn with 
you the loss of the loved one, and look for- 
ward to meeting him on the 'other shore.' " 
— John and Annetta Wylie. 

"I am crying with you about dear little Paul. 
My heart is full. God only can comfort you." 
— Rhoda Alice Taylor, 

"From the first moment of Paul's illness 
you have been in my mind. I have observed 
how close a relationship existed between you 
and your son — how great a companionsliip. 
Aside from this, he was an exceedingly bright 
lad, and naturally you were looking forward to 



C{)iI06ooD 105 

a time when in his maturer years you could 
lean upon him, but all this cannot be. Why 
we cannot explain. It is beyond our compre- 
hension why those who apparently have a fu- 
ture should be taken, while those whose use- 
fulness is apparently over should remain. I 
say we cannot understand, but I am sure 
your Christian faith will enable you to try 
to do so." 

^-Hozvard Thornton. 

"The pure spirit of dear Paul has been in 
my mind during this Easter celebration. No 
doubt he now rejoices in the perfect knowl- 
edge of the risen Son and Saviour Christ. All 
find consolation in this great Easter fact — 
Christ has risen, and we, too, shall rise. 
Praying God's blessing upon you and yours." 

— John Huske, D. D. 

"Though I did not know Paul, I had come to 
love and admire him through his remarkable 
gift of expression of beautiful thought and 
sentiment." 

— David C, Scott, 

"Dear Father Ward: — 

"I see you have met with a personal loss in 
the death of dear little Paul Esmond, whose 
verses I have been reading in your paper for 
a long time. A flower culled for the Garden 
of the Lord." 

— Charles Mercer Hall. 
Mission Church of Holy Cross, Kingston, N. Y. 



io6 poettp o( 

"My Dear Father Ward: — 

"I am indeed grieved to read of the death of 
your nephew, Paul Warner Esmond. Such a 
bright, dear Httle face S. Paul's Parchment 
shows. It brought tears to my eyes to know 
that so lovely a lad was gone. May he rest 
in peace, and may light perpetual shine upon 
him. I know that dear boy's face will come be- 
fore me involuntarily when next I am at the 
altar and I will remember him and you." 
*'Yours most faithfully, 

— H. A. Dumhell, Rector. 

''Great Barrington, Mass." 

"My heart has ached, very, very often, in 
tender sympathy with you all in the great sor- 
row that was brought into your lives by the 
transplanting of your rare and beautiful ffower 
to the Heavenly kingdom, to be nurtured and 
tended by the angelic hosts of that beautiful 
city, not made by hands. 

"His must indeed have been an ideal char- 
acter, endowed with a bright and gifted mind, 
and so tender, loving and unselfish, during his 
young life. 

"Such characters are so rare and beautiful, 
and the Dear Loving Father has need of such 
faithful subjects in his glorious Heavenly 
Home, which He is preparing for his faithful 
ones." 

— Nanny B. Moore, Cousin. 

"How dear Paul in his rare loveliness had 
twined himself around all your hearts, and 



how desolate the Home must be without him. 
I have wept with you in your great sorrow. 
Dear, beautiful, loving Paul taken from your 
embrace." 

— Anna E. Bensel. 

"As I looked at Paul's beautiful face and 
imagined all that rare boy had been to your 
heart and hopes, I could realize a little of the 
desolating sorrow that fills your home. Life's 
mysteries are more than I can solve, but that 
sweet beautiful life is sowing in nobler, di- 
viner ways, somewhere in the Father's house." 
—Frank H. Rozvlcy, D. D. 

"Friend of my childhood and all the years, 
you have very much to remember and cherish 
in the memory of Paul's sweet young life and 
his great promise. The truest lines Tenny- 
son ever wrote are : — 

* 'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all.' " 

— Wallace Bruce. 

"My heart is very sad, for I loved Paul 
dearly. His religious and spiritual nature, if 
possible, were more remarkable than his in- 
tellectual. He was a most unusual and lovely 
child. You could not keep him here. His lit- 
tle work of love was done and the Master 
wanted him up higher." 

— Ella L. Shaffer, 



io8 Poettp of CftilDftooD 

''Truly it seems as though God took only 
those who are most fit for His kingdom. Such 
a brilliant, pure young soul could not long 
remain on this sad earth." 

— Mary /. Fennimen. 

''Kindly accept this 'Song of the Syrian 
Guest.' It is dear little Paul's favorite Psalm 
— the twenty-third — told in the form of a 
story by a Syrian. How little Paul would 
have grasped every part of it. I had intended 
giving it to him at Easter, and only in this 
Psalm can I see any comfort." 

— Alice P. O'Brien. 

"My heart has grieved with you for dear 
little Paul, with sweet, sad memories, which 
are all very sacred." 

— Frederick H. Haywood. 




A\0 y£LLOW LEAF 



015 873 365 1 



